


Given Respite

by loquaciousquark



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Babysitting, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:19:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2737496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loquaciousquark/pseuds/loquaciousquark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A guest arrives at Skyhold. The Inquisitor's companions are introduced to a baby. Dorian meets Fenris. An interlude set after "Here Lies The Abyss," spoilers abounding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Given Respite

**Author's Note:**

> First things first: this fic contains massive spoilers for the Inquisition quest "Here Lies The Abyss." Please read with caution if you haven't completed that quest yet.
> 
> Secondly, I owe massive thanks to my friend servantofclio, who generously offered her services as Latin translator when I asked. All remaining errors are my own.
> 
> This is, now that I think of it, the first fix-it fic I've written with the explicit intent of reparation. Regardless, there's not a snowball's chance my Hawke would have left Fenris behind without a darn good reason, so here's the best I could figure for the two of them. (I'm still not sure about the PC-last-name-only thing. Consider it a work in progress.)
> 
> Enjoy!

WE were young, we were merry, we were very very wise,  
And the door stood open at our feast,  
When there passed us a woman with the West in her eyes,  
And a man with his back to the East.

 _—Unwelcome,_ Mary Elizabeth Coleridge

—

"Here you are."

It takes more effort than she expects to look up, her neck stiff, her knuckles sore where they've been digging into her forehead. Cullen's mouth quirks—she must have a red mark from the pressure—and Trevelyan rolls her head on her shoulders, trying to ignore the aches running deep into her spine as Cullen closes the door behind him, shutting out the courtyard's afternoon sunlight. "Were you looking for me?"

"I thought you'd be in the garden."

"The Champion wanted to speak to me for a few moments. After I kept her from immediately running off to Weisshaupt, it seemed the least I could do."

"The Champion?" says Cullen, glancing at the open archway Trevelyan leans against. He can't see much from here, she knows; only the neat carpet and drapes of the nicest guest quarters Skyhold had been able to offer, limited even so by its sparse furnishings, by its opening directly to the yard instead of the keep proper. At least it has the anteroom where Trevelyan sits now for makeshift privacy, the glove she'd been embroidering abandoned on the bench beside her. Functional, Hawke had called it, smiling. Little else.

She'd been ashamed to offer it, especially considering Hawke hadn't wished to return in the first place. But they'd both been exhausted after Adamant, and it had been the middle of the night with wounded wailing to the stars, and with no supplies to spare she hadn't wished… "She fell asleep on the chaise. I thought it best to let her rest."

Cullen lifts an eyebrow, gaze returning. "She hasn't insisted on leaving yet?"

"For Weisshaupt? No, not yet. She agreed to wait two more days until we can give her a fresh horse."

"Her journey's been doubled by returning here. She'll need it."

"I know," Trevelyan says, and rubs at the mark on her forehead again. "I was afraid."

"Ah," says Cullen, and she can _hear_ the wince in his voice. "That's not—oh. I forgot. The reason I was looking for you—we've developed a situation. I mean, a guest. Well… both, really."

Trevelyan frowns. "Do tell."

"Well, about half an hour ago—"

"Get out of my way." A new voice, deep and decidedly irritated and _definitely_ just outside the door. Trevelyan can't place—and then Cassandra, unintimidated as ever: "I told you before, elf. You will go no further."

"Fasta vass, woman, _move!_ "

Cullen's just laid a hand on the door before it crashes open. Cassandra's back fills the frame, tensed to spring, silhouetted by sunlight—and then Trevelyan sees the gloved hand curled around her shoulder, the strong arm stiffened to shove her aside. Cullen swears, reaching for his sword; Trevelyan's got dagger in hand already, loosing a breath as she steps forward—

"Fenris?"

The word is thick with sleep and muffled with the end of a yawn, and the sound of it stops the struggle cold. The elf looks up—and it _is_ an elf, Trevelyan realizes, the tallest she's seen yet, broad shoulders unsoftened by a thick dark cloak, stark white hair falling in his face where it's come loose from the short, careless braid down his back.

He stops, straightens, his hand falling forgotten from Cassandra's shoulder. "Hawke?"

Cassandra's eyes narrow, her jaw still set—but before she can move Hawke _laughs_ , a bright giddiness to the sound that shocks through the room, and then the elf shoulders Cassandra aside and strides forward and so does Hawke and when they meet she throws her arms around his neck, still laughing, burying her face against him as he grips her closer.

No threat, then—no strangers, either. Trevelyan withdraws, slides her dagger back to its home at her wrist, glancing at her feet to hide her smile. Cassandra scowls; at the still-open door Cullen exhales and smoothes a hand over his hair. "I know him," he says wryly. "From Kirkwall. His name's—"

"Fenris," Hawke says, pulling back without releasing him, and Cassandra's arms cross in the corner of Trevelyan's eye. Not angry—rather as if she's surprised and wishes to hide it. Hawke glances at the elf, grins again at his own smile, then adds in something like surprise herself, "We're married."

Trevelyan opens her mouth to congratulate them, genuinely pleased, but Cassandra's arms fall to her sides as she takes an abrupt step forward. "Married!" she says, then recoils at her own astonishment. "I thought—that is—excuse my rudeness. Varric must have omitted this part of his story."

"Very likely," says Fenris, asperity not quite convincing given the gladness still in his face. "It's recent enough."

"'Recent enough,'" Hawke echoes, open laughter that dies too quickly. "Recent as—oh, _Fenris_ —"

"Here," he tells her, and throws his cloak behind his shoulder with his free arm. Trevelyan steps forward, sucking in a sharp breath—

"A baby," she says flatly, as Hawke lifts the small, swaddled infant from the crook of Fenris's arm where it has been hidden. "You have a child."

Hawke lifts the baby's forehead to her own, presses a kiss to a tiny palm. "Such observational skills must be of great use to the Inquisition," she coos, the softness of her voice turning the words teasing, then turns the child in her arms so Trevelyan can see the sleepy face, the small fist lifting aimlessly between them. "Oh, she looks so much better. What do you think, Leda? Can you say hello to Lady Trevelyan?"

She can't quite keep her voice steady. "A pleasure to meet you. Champion, you didn't tell me you had a daughter."

Fenris's eyes flick to the door as Cullen withdraws; Cassandra follows without a word, though her eyes turn back over her shoulder just before the door closes again. Trevelyan presses her palms together at her waist, struggling for calm, tamping down the old, rising fear at the back of her throat.

"We thought it best," Fenris says at last, settling his weight against the small desk as Hawke returns to her abandoned chaise, her daughter held to her heart. "Neither of us is without enemies, even with your Inquisition rising."

"But you should have told me!" She can hardly believe— "In the Fade, I nearly—"

Hawke, sharp as flint: " _Don't_ —"

She cannot stop herself; her stomach roils. "I nearly let you stay behind! Without a word you'd have gone—you're her _mother_ , and you'd have let me make a newborn an orphan out of _ignorance!_ "

"This war is larger than either of us."

"Some sacrifices should be avoided, Champion. It wasn't necessary. You should have _told me._ "

"I told you what you needed to know! You can't decide a battle based on who'll give the more tragic death, Trevelyan—I'm an _apostate_ , not an asset, and the Wardens needed someone to lead them. They still do."

 _How_? How can she— "You think I made the wrong choice. Even now."

The child has begun to frown. Hawke hushes her, smoothing her thumb over her daughter's cheek; without looking up, she says, "Yes. Probably."

"What does she mean, Hawke?" Fenris's voice at last, even and careful. He has not moved from the desk, though there is nothing of his former ease to him now.

Hawke's mouth thins and for an instant Trevelyan thinks she'll refuse; then she sighs, and in quick, unembellished speech, she gives Fenris a rough sketch of the events of the Fade. He says nothing, does not look away until she reaches the demon Nightmare, and as she tells him of her offer to Trevelyan he turns and moves to the window, his hands clenched at his sides, his back stiff with anger. Hawke finishes; no one speaks.

The room is silent for a long time. Sunlight still streams in through the paned windows, throwing barred light across the bed and chaise alike; outside Bull calls something to Krem that makes the other man laugh, an odd dissonance to the strain still stretching here between them. Fenris himself is more statue than man; she cannot even see the rise of his breath.

An odd thing, Trevelyan thinks, pressing her fingertips to her forehead, sinking down at last into a painted wooden chair left by the archway. She had not expected someone so insistent on entrance to control his fury so easily.

Minutes pass; slowly, the world resumes. Hawke begins to unwrap her daughter from her travelling swaddle; Fenris moves to rest his palms on the sill, white head bending nearer to the glass. Trevelyan—

Trevelyan should not be here. This is a private thing, meant for the ones who are married and not for her, and she's nearly on the verge of rising when Hawke lets out an explosive sigh and tickles her daughter's stomach until she giggles. "If it's any consolation," she says, entirely too easily for someone who ought to be penitent, "I'd have hated every minute of it."

Fenris snorts, dropping his head, and all at once the tense thing in the room goes soft. "There's little to console in that, Hawke."

"Leda thinks so. Don't you, wee little heart?"

Trevelyan smiles despite herself, the child's enormous green eyes flicking to her father in confusion as Hawke kisses her nose. "If the baby's satisfied I suppose we must be as well. Regardless, there's not much to be done about it now."

"No," Fenris agrees with open resignation, and crosses the room until he can sit beside Hawke on the chaise. Leda pats her mother's knee, then reaches for Trevelyan across the room. How long has it been since she's been around children?

"Not easily, anyway," Hawke tells him. "At least I'm almost certainly not a darkspawn."

Fenris shakes his head again, but when Hawke leans to kiss him his hand lifts to her jaw to keep her, marked fingers curling beneath her ear until they break away. A world of history in that kiss; Trevelyan wishes she had not seen it, though Hawke seems little embarrassed by her audience as she rests her free hand on Fenris's knee. "How did she travel? Anything left of the colic?"

"Well. Few saw us; fewer attempted to speak to me. I… did not encourage them."

It's such dry understatement Trevelyan can't help but laugh; she laughs again as Hawke snickers, and when the Champion beckons she draws closer, bending over until she can see Leda's face in full light.

Round cheeks, round elbows, soft hands grasping nothing—enormous green eyes clearly won from her father, and ink-black hair in a wild tuft at the crown of her head. One of Trevelyan's cousins had been this age not two years ago; she still remembers walking him up and down the hallways of her uncle's chateau, his head heavy on her shoulder, shawl wrapped around them both, softly singing Chant into the smallest hours of the night.

"Would you like to hold her?"

She would. Hawke sees it well enough; in short order the Champion's daughter has been folded into Trevelyan's arms, green eyes unconcerned with her transfer and blinking up with interest at the sunlight. "She's lovely, Hawke."

"She's loud."

"She is _young_ ," Fenris says, glancing at Hawke. "And tired."

"A short walk, then," Hawke offers. "Besides, I need to talk to you."

It's clear enough as requests go, and Trevelyan adjusts the child's warm weight until she can gesture at the window. "I'll be just outside, then. Within sight and everything."

"We won't be long," Hawke says, and smiles.

—

Cassandra finds her first, sword returned to her hip, displeasure still at the corners of her mouth that fades all too quickly as she sees what Trevelyan holds. "A baby," she says, holding one gloved finger to Leda's palm until her fingers wrap around it. "The Champion and the elf had a child. I… never suspected."

"I told you I was writing Kirkwall," says Varric, entirely amused and a touch smug, and Cassandra rolls her eyes as the dwarf joins them on the path. "Hello, Sparrow. You're bigger than you were. You remember Uncle Varric, don't you?"

"She's an _infant_ ," Trevelyan points out. "She barely remembers what happened ten seconds ago."

"You underestimate my memorability. How about Bianca? Bi-an-ca. Come on, kid, you're making me look bad."

Leda hiccups, then blinks in astonishment. Cassandra trails her finger up Leda's cheek to the softened point of her ear where it rests against Trevelyan's arm, smiling. "After Kirkwall, I suppose."

Varric snorts, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Really, Seeker. I told you enough of their story to fill a novel last time, and I promised the elf—admittedly, on threat of pain—that I wouldn't put out any more publications. Don't you think you should let them have a little privacy now that they've been dragged into someone else's fight? Again?"

"Mm," Cassandra says thoughtfully, and Trevelyan stills her fingers on Leda's chest. "I think I understand."

"Do you?"

"I'd have wanted to protect her too."

—

"Right, what does it do?"

"It's a baby, Sera."

"You Wardens always state the bloody obvious? I can _see_ that. But if the fearless Herald's got hold of it, it'll start shooting green sparks out of its eyes or something, right?"

Blackwall looks torn between amusement and faint disturbance, and Trevelyan adjusts Leda in her arms as Sera peers closer. "I could be wrong, but I don't think that's how the mark works."

"Pissing shame, that. Besides, with the way you pick up agents out of every barrel in the waste I'd've laid a royal on this being… I don't know. One of Leliana's trained nugs in disguise. Really secret disguise. Ready to blow lightning at anyone who crossed it."

"The best disguise I've ever seen," Trevelyan says mildly, and Blackwall chuckles.

"I agree that she doesn't look the sort to… snuffle. Or whatever it is nugs do."

Sera hisses through her teeth. "Make a good stew if you're scarce. Though I guess the Champion's elf would get a bit glow-fist-argh if we tried."

"If you try, let me know," says Blackwall, grinning as Leda reaches clumsily for the curled wood-shaving he dangles above her face. "I'll watch from a safe distance. Very safe. The battlements, maybe."

"Nah, I've better arses to wallop." Sera flicks the shaving from between Blackwall's fingers, taps Leda on the nose, and turns on her heel to saunter away, whistling.

"Huh," says Blackwall, folding his arms as she makes a corner, and Trevelyan raises her brows.

"Surprised?"

"A little," Blackwall tells her. "Just wouldn't have guessed Sera liked children."

—

"I knew them, you know," Cullen tells her. It's a little awkward, him looming while she sits on the bench in the garden, and he seems to realize soon enough to take a seat beside her. "In Kirkwall, before they were married."

"I didn't know you were friends with Fenris."

"'Friend' is strong, perhaps. Hawke often brought him with her when she came to see Meredith. We spoke once or twice. He was there when she fought the Arishok, too."

"I heard rumors of that fight even at home. Was it as bad as they say?" She shifts Leda again, her arms beginning to ache, and when Cullen offers she lets him take the weight, settling the baby carefully against the enormous furred collar of his cloak.

"Worse, really. The Viscount…" he trails off, gaze drifting through the baby he holds into a memory, and continues more quietly. "The Viscount was dead. The city guard had scattered through the streets trying to save the citizens, and we didn't realize everyone with a title had been herded to the Keep until they were already there and we were trapped outside. Hawke was the only one who could talk to him. The Arishok, I mean. Promised him a duel to save her friend's life."

Trevelyan plucks gently at Leda's big toe, catches her bare foot when she swings it. Such a small foot. Too small, for a world tearing itself apart around her. "She won."

"And was badly wounded. The elf—Fenris, that is—took her from the hall almost the instant the duel was over."

"In the Fade," Trevelyan starts, not quite sure what she means to say, unable to stop herself. "In the Fade, she would have stayed. It was her or—it had to be someone, and if I'd said so, she would have remained behind. Lost, to Fenris and the little one both." Leda tugs, and Trevelyan lets her foot slide free. "That can't be justice, Cullen."

He is quiet a long time, long enough for Leda to find his collar and make an infant's fist there, tufts of brown fur poking through insistent, tiny fingers. "This is war," he says at last, more serious than she meant to make him, though he smiles when Leda refuses to release his cloak. "Justice is hard to find in war."

She doesn't know how to answer that, so when Cullen at last untangles himself and returns to her Leda's comfortable weight, she cups the baby's face and presses a weary kiss to her cheek. Cullen rises, stretches, takes two steps—then he turns, his smile gladder than before. "Just remember one thing, Inquisitor."

"What is it?"

"That we're fighting for peace." He nods at Leda, held still in Trevelyan's arms. "And if we do it right, peace will be all she'll ever know."

—

The baby is is, in her entirety, smaller than the Iron Bull's hands. Trevelyan can tell this because Bull's holding her in said hands at eye level, which is almost certainly not a height Fenris would have approved had he realized she kept a Qunari in her immediate company. Don't come out, she thinks desperately as Bull lifts her cheerfully cooing form higher to glance at her back. Stay inside—I am not jeopardizing your child's life in the hands of a giant— _please_ don't come out—

"She's very small, huh?" Bull says at last, dropping her back down to somewhere around chest height. "Too bad about the horns."

"Please," Trevelyan says, closer to begging than she'd like, "don't drop her."

"Human kids are that fragile?"

"I believe most infants are to some degree, yes. Don't Qunari take extra care with their babies?"

"Sure. The Tamrassan usually give them at least six weeks before they put them in the arena."

"You are such a liar."

He laughs. "Yeah, I know. But Qunari are durable, even the young. This one looks pretty soft."

"Well, her parents aren't. Don't drop her."

"She have a name?" he asks, and suddenly there is something in his voice that stops her—nothing she can pinpoint, nothing she can ask, nothing she can possibly explain. She does not laugh this time.

Quietly, she says, "Her name is Leda."

The Iron Bull does not answer immediately. Instead he narrows his eye, lifts the baby closer; after a moment he shifts her weight between his hands, his fingers enough to support her head without effort, and studies her face with a focused intent Trevelyan's only seen from him in battle. Somewhere she can hear soldiers laughing in the sparring ring; on the far side of the courtyard one of the horses lets out a distant whinny. A breeze picks up, tosses her hair, and dies again without fanfare.

At last he sighs, and when Leda turns her head in his hand he smoothes one finger across the wild tuft of her black hair. "A good name," he tells Leda, and smirks when her palm smacks against his and she makes a small, meaningless baby's noise at the contact.

Trevelyan can't quite swallow through the inexplicable lump in her throat. Instead she smiles, accepting the baby when Bull offers her again, and says, "I'm sure her parents think so, anyway."

"Yeah," says Bull, and all at once he shifts his shoulders restlessly, like horse's withers at the touch of a crop. "I've got things to do. See you later, boss."

"See you," Trevelyan murmurs, but Leda's green eyes follow him the whole way.

—

Leda cannot look away from Vivienne's hat.

Or stop from reaching for it, either, which is why after the second attempt to pat her cheek ends in hat half-askew and Leda laughing, Vivienne retreats to a safer distance. "There's a reason children are not invited to general entertainment in Montsimmard," she murmurs, adjusting it into place again as best she can. "Though she seems to have an eye for style already. Fortunate."

Leda smiles and reaches again for the hat, but Trevelyan catches her hand and folds it against her chest. "So there's no way to tell yet, then?"

"Heavens, no, my dear. She has years yet before even the first signs will show."

"Madame de Fer has the right of it," says Solas behind her, and Trevelyan nearly topples off the stone wall she leans against.

"Solas! I didn't hear you."

He gestures at the infant held against Trevelyan's chest, green eyes blinking with great interest over her shoulder at the headpiece still out of reach. "With good reason. Though as I said, she is correct. The child is far too young to show signs of magic, even if her mother is the Champion of Kirkwall."

Leda burbles agreeably, waving a hand that pats Trevelyan's cheek. "Well," she says, leaning back just enough to kiss her forehead, "let's give her the chance to find out."

—

"A sack of grain." A pause as Cole circles the bench Trevelyan sits on, Leda propped in her lap; then: "No. Something else."

"The Champion's daughter. Hers and Fenris's."

"Bright, but burnt by sorrow's shadow. Fenris will die—a liar, lying. Every turn is a new scale; she's tired of gold. He'd tear it apart if he could, but she wouldn't like it. Why do you have their baby?"

Leda rolls her weight suddenly enough Trevelyan has to grip her by the arms to steady her. "Because her parents needed to talk."

He glances over his shoulder across the yard, furrowing his brow at the door that leads to the Champion's quarters. "He's angry. They're holding hands. A hot knot in his heart, twisted, tight, tugging at his ribs. It's too old to heal, so she's wrapped it in red ribbon to soften the scars. It tore when she left, but she's stitching it back up because she loves him. I do not want her to leave again. It frightens me to love her; it frightens me to lose her. I am yours."

"Look," Trevelyan says, pulling Cole's attention away from a moment neither of them is meant to see. "She's a wonderfully calm child. Have you ever seen an infant before? Up close, I mean?"

Cole crouches at Trevelyan's feet in the grass, head tilted back enough that he can see Leda's face past the brim of his hat, the dark head turning left and right as he moves. "Did she talk with them too?"

"She's too young to speak yet. It takes time for babies to learn words."

"A field of yellow flowers, wind fluttering the heads. They are smiling at each other, at me. An apple splits crisply under a little knife; I can smell summer in the juice. I want everything."

"She doesn't remember that."

"You do."

" _Cole_ ," Trevelyan says, startled, and he reaches out, more carefully than she knew he could, and touches Leda's bare toes. Softer, she asks, " _Does_ she remember anything?"

"Love," he says, and cocks his head. "It's all she knows."

—

Trevelyan leans back on her hands, laughing as Dorian pulls another face to make Leda smile. One thing had led to another when he'd walked by; he'd only said hello, and then he'd seen the baby, and then without Trevelyan quite knowing how he'd ended up sprawled on his stomach on his spread cloak, Leda on her back just before him, both of them charmed by the colorful scarf he dances in the air above her.

She catches the end of it with a lucky, unfocused grasp; Dorian carefully pulls it free, brushes the corner of it over Leda's nose and between her eyes, tickles the sole of her foot with his other hand. "That's _silk_ , my little beauty. It's very expensive. Say 'expensive.'"

"Bah," says Leda, and grabs for the silk without a single apparent qualm over its cost.

"Try again," Trevelyan offers. "Maybe it'll work better the second time around."

"Ooh," Dorian clucks, and busses the inside of Leda's arm until she laughs again, high and delighted. "You precious thing. You're just stubborn, aren't you? You're just holding out for something better—"

They both sense the danger at the same moment. Unfocused anger, a shadow across the edge of the cloak—Trevelyan's hand closes around the hilt of her dagger even as Dorian rolls to his feet, scooping the baby against his chest as he does so. His other arm bends across them both, warding, blue fire in his palm—

"I will warn you once, mage," Fenris snarls, fury vibrating in every syllable. "Give me the child or I will kill you."

"Fenris," Trevelyan tries, but neither man looks away.

"Oh!" says Dorian, no less pleasant, no less dangerous. "I hear Tevinter in your voice. De qua civitate venis?"

Fenris's eyes narrow even further, and as he steps closer he spits out a torrent of caustic Tevene that Trevelyan has no hope of understanding. It's enough to color Dorian's cheeks, though, and make the flame in his palm jump and flicker, and when Leda begins writhing in his arms and reaching for Fenris it's all he can do to keep her steady. His smile is bladed. "Est hoc optimum modum acquirere amicos?"

"Dorian—"

"Non requiro tuam amicitiam, Altus," Fenris snaps, and Leda begins to cry. "Dorian Pavus, House Pavus. Give her to me!"

"Servus!" Dorian says, abrupt comprehension in his face, and as Leda's wails grow louder Fenris lets out a low, vicious noise, every muscle tensing, the marks through his skin lit a brilliant white, his head lowered like a wild creature preparing to kill—

"Fenris!" Hawke shouts, even as Trevelyan shoves between them, " _Dorian_!" snapping out of her own mouth like an order. Dorian recoils, pressing Leda's head against his chest as he half-turns for her protection; Fenris lets out an explosive breath of frustration and whirls on Hawke as she joins them at a run, gasping, half-bent for breath.

"Inquisitor, you can't possibly expect—"

"Hawke! This man—Altus, he—"

" _Damn_ it," Hawke says, raking a hand through her hair. "I meant to get here sooner but I got caught up with Varric and I—before anyone dies, Dorian, will you please return my daughter to her father?"

"Father," Dorian repeats in tones of patent disbelief that gives way too soon to careful calm, but when Trevelyan glares he steps forward, shifting Leda's squirming, bawling weight from his chest to his hands to Fenris's. The moment his daughter is secure Fenris backs away, one hand cupped to the back of her small, dark head where it's hidden in his neck; Trevelyan has sensed Fenris is not a man easily given to displays of emotion, but even she cannot miss the agony of relief in his face.

Neither, she realizes at his indrawn breath, can Dorian, and she glances away before he realizes she's noticed. She has not seen him so grave since…

No time for that. "I'm sorry," Trevelyan says, slotting smoothly into the place between words. "I didn't explain quickly enough."

"Neither did I," Hawke says wryly, covering Fenris's lined hand with her own where it rests on Leda's back. The child's crying has slowed, her fist wrapped vise-tight into her father's shirt; Hawke's touch soothes her further to leave only Fenris's ire unabated. Hawke's mouth quirks at his glare. "I _am_ sorry, Fenris."

"You know this man."

"Dorian Pavus of Tevinter, as you seem to have realized already. I meant to tell you about him just a moment ago, before you left, but it slipped my mind. I met him in Crestwood, in that mess with the mayor and the sunken city and the demons everywhere. You know the one."

His grip on Leda eases; his frown does not. "Varric mentioned something of it."

Dorian gives an elaborate shrug, mustache already beginning to curl with his smile, and Trevelyan sighs—she knows that look. "It was memorable for both of us, it seems. I confess my own reminiscences are much less pleasant—save, of course, the honor of the Champion's company."

Hawke laughs, and Fenris's scowl shifts by the barest edge from real anger into annoyance. "He reminds me of Zevran," Hawke tells him, which makes him scoff, though the flash of levity vanishes almost the moment it comes. "No harm done."

"I do not trust him." Flat, with no anger; only honesty; then to Dorian directly: "I do not trust you."

"I do," Trevelyan offers, and ignores Dorian's startled look beside her. She doesn't know if this will help, but… "If it matters. If that means anything for you."

Hawke's expression slides into something opaque. "Do you, now?"

"Yes. I have for some time. I know he's from Tevinter, but he's—he's proven himself over and over. I'd trust him with my life."

"Steady on, Lady Trevelyan."

"Oh, hush. You've saved it often enough."

"Well." Hawke rolls her head on her neck, glances at Fenris. "Satisfied?"

"No," he snaps, but at Hawke's quirked eyebrow he turns his head away. "By only the thinnest margin."

"Just promise me you won't try to tear out his heart."

"It's very tender," Dorian adds.

Fenris closes his eyes. "As you wish."

More than Trevelyan expected. Regardless, he no longer looks ready to tear Dorian to pieces; that must be victory enough. In the silence after Leda lets out a heavy sigh, her eyelids fluttering against her father's neck, and Fenris shifts her weight with an unconscious ease that hurts Trevelyan's heart. Nearly robbed her of her mother, nearly stole from him his wife—how much more has she trampled out of ignorance? How many sacrifices has she made without knowing their cost?

Had Stroud a family waiting for him?

But Dorian steps forward before she can circle too deeply into those thoughts again, and at Fenris's wary look he says, "A new beginning, then. With my humble apologies."

"You kept my daughter from me."

"Ignorance and good intentions. I swear I meant no harm, Liberati."

Fenris shakes his head sharply, his hand moving across the baby's back as if he would prefer to make a larger gesture. "Don't call me that. I left Tevinter behind me long ago."

"Fenris, then." Dorian sweeps a bow, grandiose and yet somehow entirely sincere, and when he rises he adds, smiling, "Dorian Pavus, House Pavus, at your esteemed and gracious service."

His lips thin. "I would settle for distance, mage."

"That would be easier to grant if your daughter had not already won my heart. You know her beauty will bring admirers from every corner of Thedas."

Hawke laughs; Trevelyan smiles; Fenris rolls his eyes, though Trevelyan doesn't miss the corner of his mouth twitching, just for a moment. "Do not think I am swayed so easily."

"It's true," Hawke adds. "It took me six years to win his favor."

" _Hawke_."

"Fenris," she parrots, and lifts Leda from Fenris's arms into her own. Her dark head lolls with sleep onto her mother's shoulder; when Hawke adjusts her weight she settles with a sigh and does not move again. "Come on, my little lovely darling. You're tired, I'm tired, and I've missed you. _And_ you," she adds at Fenris's expression, and tucks her free arm into his. "I have so many things to tell you that don't even involve darkspawn. If you'll excuse us, Inquisitor."

"Gladly," Trevelyan says, meaning it. "And, Champion… I'm sorry."

"Don't be," the Champion says, and smiles—and for a moment Trevelyan sees the woman as Kirkwall must have seen her, someone tall and shining and steady, someone who could lead a city whether she wished or not and protect it all the same, who might understand the weight of a decision made at the cost of unknown lives. A kindred soul, she hopes, if such things exist, and she's surprised at her own relief. Hawke inclines her head. "I don't regret it, Inquisitor. Even now."

"Thank you," Trevelyan says through a tight throat, and as the Champion turns with her husband for their quarters Dorian settles his arm over her shoulders to watch them go. It will not last—Hawke still goes to Weisshaupt, and Fenris will not be left behind again, but there's an ease between them Trevelyan hasn't seen since Hawke first stepped foot onto her battlements, and despite the war and the rifts and the looming threat of Blight and more, there's something spreading behind her ribs that feels very much like peace.

"So," Dorian says brightly after a moment, "I think that went rather well, don't you?"

"That depends. How close do you think you came to death?"

"Oh, _easily_ ten words. I like to give myself a buffer when I can."

She nudges him in the ribs with her elbow, laughing when he feigns injury. "You're such a charmer."

"I know," he tells her with a cheeky smile, but his eyes are in the distance, softer, and Trevelyan follows his gaze curiously. Fenris's back, and Hawke's, their fingers linked between them, and—

Clutched in Leda's hand, waving gently with every step, dangles Dorian's colorful silk scarf.

—

end.

**Author's Note:**

> Latin translations by request, again entirely due to the amazing servantofclio: 
> 
> "De qua civitate venis?" (literally) From what city do you come?  
> "Est hoc optimum modum acquirere amicos?" Is that really the most effective way to make friends?  
> "Non requiro tuam amicitiam, Altus." (literally) I don’t need your friendship, Altus.  
> "Servus!" A slave!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Memorare](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5146733) by [Jade_Sabre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Sabre/pseuds/Jade_Sabre)




End file.
